"Monsieur le Comte Léodgard is still very young," murmured Hector, still draped by the portière.
"Very young—when he has nearly reached his twenty-sixth year! A man is a man at that age, and he no longer has the first effervescence of youth for an excuse! Ah! when I was at that age, you were already in my service—do you remember, Hector?"
"As if it was yesterday, monseigneur; my memory is as sound as my ears."
"Very well! I served in the army, I fought, I lived in camp. But, although I was a bachelor,—for I married quite late,—did I ever lead this life of licentiousness, of debauchery, which makes me blush for my son?"
"All young men are not as irreproachable as monseigneur has always been—as bachelor, husband, and widower."
"I do not expect that he shall be faultless! I do not demand the impossible! But I do not propose that weaknesses shall become vices; faults, crimes!"
"Oh! monsieur le marquis! be indulgent to monsieur your son!"
"I have been indulgent enough, too much so, perhaps. I must see Léodgard; he must be made acquainted with my irrevocable determination!—And that rascally Latournelle, his valet—is he still in the house?"
"No, monseigneur; I have not seen him for several days."
"I told my son to discharge that knave; a scoundrel, a blackleg, a gambler, who ought to be hanged."